


here's what happens when life goes on

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: zolf smith v the concept of emotional openness [3]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: 3 sentences maybe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, MENTIONS OF FIGGIS THE CAT, Panic Attacks, So just as a warning, Trans Male Character, also there's no major char death IN the fic but it DOES deal with post-aziza, like I said very faint, sasha's also THERE but just nominally, there are very very faint mentions of zolfhamid I guess?? but not enough to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: Hamid was a teenager the last time he did this.Thirteen years later, Aziza’s dead, and Hamid is looking for cologne again, trying his hardest not to cry. It’s stupid. He’s in a drugstore because that’s where Aziza took him, and he’s panicking because he’s had the same stupid smell for thirteen years and now everything is wrong and Hamid doesn’t know what to do.(or, the therapy au piece with no therapy in it. we'll get there, guys)





	here's what happens when life goes on

**Author's Note:**

> today has been so cursed. trying to make that better. if you know what I'm talking about, I'm sorry, if you don't, _good._
> 
> hamid is 4'11", for reference.
> 
> working title: _CHRIST boys can you maybe just TALK to each other!!!!! PLEASE!!!!!!!!!_

Hamid’s fine! Hamid is great. Hamid’s having  _ such  _ a good time. Hamid is doing so well. Hamid has a panic attack every time he passes Aziza’s room, but  _ aside  _ from that, he’s really okay!

And he’s had to change his cologne. It’s stupid, but he and Aziza had the same one. She picked it out with him when he was thirteen, when Hamid broke down in the perfume aisle because he didn’t want to smell like a girl, and Aziza had bought two bottles. When Hamid asked why, Aziza had winked and said, “I need everyone to know my little brother has  _ great _ taste.” 

Thirteen years later, Aziza’s dead, and Hamid is looking for cologne again, trying his hardest not to cry. It’s stupid. He’s in a drugstore because that’s where Aziza took him, and he’s panicking because he’s had the same stupid smell for thirteen years and now everything is wrong and Hamid doesn’t know what to do. And he can’t start weeping, it’d be bad for publicity. And—

“...Hamid?” 

He whirls around to see — oh, gods. It’s Zolf, a bit down the aisle, holding a few toiletries and a bag of cat food. Hamid  _ really  _ wants to see Zolf, he does, but not like this. 

“Zolf!” is what he says instead of running in the opposite direction, flashing a megawatt smile rather than hiding inside the folds of his own blazer. Zolf hesitates, then limps towards Hamid, tugging down the sleeves of his jacket. “I— it’s so good to see you; how’ve you been?” 

The small talk seems to take Zolf aback a bit, but Hamid just needs to babble. “I, uh— fine,” says Zolf, like he’s censoring his words. “And yourself?” 

Hamid plays the airhead, the ex-party boy, the flirt, as he always does. It’s second nature at this point. “Oh, you know,” he sighs, gesturing to the wall of perfumes and colognes. “Shopping. Really, I’ve ordered my favourite already, from Chanel—” This is a straight lie. Also, Hamid never uses Chanel. “— but I ran out a few days ago, and it’s  _ dreadful,  _ really. So silly of me to let myself do that, don’t you think?” 

“I— I wouldn’t know,” says Zolf after a short pause, clearing his throat. “Sorry.” 

Hamid’s heart lurches into his mouth because of all the people in his life, nowadays, Zolf is maybe the only one for which he doesn’t have to perform, and Hamid just blew that friendship by looking like a complete prick. “N-no, I— I didn’t mean it like that,” he tries to backtrack, but he’s stumbling over his words. “I mean, I— that is to say, I, um —which one do you prefer, Zolf?”

Zolf squints in Hamid’s direction. “...what?” 

Hamid motions towards the wall of delicate, scented bottles once more. “I mean— I’ve just  _ got  _ to pick something in the meantime, clearly,” he says, and he’s doing it again. Hamid’s nervous, and when he’s nervous, he rambles, and when he rambles, he sounds like the disgraceful posh boy of tabloid opinion pieces. “And I’m not having any luck with this selection, myself, and I  _ really _ think I could use a second opinion, so— what do  _ you  _ think?”

Zolf looks genuinely hurt at this, which was the opposite of Hamid’s intention. “Listen, Hamid,” he says, not soft, just quiet, “I don’t really— know anything about fancy colognes, alright? And—”

“Oh, I just meant the smell!” Hamid interrupts, then winces internally. If there was any way to make this worse, he’s just done it. “I was just looking for something that— smelled nice; I… you know, that’s really the most important thing, when it comes down to it— I mean, a lot of people like brands, but there really  _ shouldn’t  _ be anything fancy about it, at least  _ I _ don’t think.”

_ Congratulations, Hamid, you’re an idiot.  _

“Right,” says Zolf warily, tightening his grip around the bag of cat food. “Well. Sasha and I are about to check out, but this one looks…” He walks over, taps a label.  _ “Nice. _ I guess.” 

Hamid peers over to see where Zolf’s finger has landed, and bursts into tears.

(“Here,” Aziza had said, once they’d gone over every sample to make sure Hamid had made the right choice. “I like it.” 

“Me too,” Hamid had replied, beaming, and he’d never felt so right.)

“Oh my gods, I’m so sorry,” Hamid whimpers as he buries his face in his hands, so really it sounds like a single muffled conglomerate of a word. “Zolf, I’m so — sorry, I —” and his breath is hitching and he’s really doing this, isn’t he? Is he really about to have a panic attack in a drugstore because Zolf, by chance, picked out the same cologne as Aziza? “I— oh, gods, I didn’t mean — I — I’m so —”

“Hey, it’s alright,” comes Zolf’s voice from very nearby, and then there’s a firm hand on Hamid’s shoulder as his body shakes with sobs. “Is this okay?”

All Hamid can do is repeat, “I’m  _ sorry,”  _ with so much misery that Zolf starts to rub little circles onto his back. And oh, gods, is he really going to do this? Is he really going to cry into the arms of a man he barely knows because he can’t hold himself together in public?

Hamid doesn’t realise that someone else has entered the aisle until Zolf says, “I’ve got this, Sasha, it’s fine.” There’s a short pause during which Hamid is crying almost too hard to breathe, and much too hard to hear the reply. _“Yes,_ go,” Zolf says impatiently to the silent figure. “I’ll find my way home. Pretty sure Figgis needs you way more than I do.” 

“Yeah, alright,” says a thick, East London accent, and then the speaker is gone so quickly Hamid thinks he might have imagined it.

“Wh-wh-who’s F-Figgis?” he manages through a gag of sobs, and Zolf chuckles warmly as he pulls Hamid to a standing position.

“Sasha’s cat.”

“Y-you have a cat?” Hamid asks, a bit more coherently this time, and it takes every single piece of his self-control not to bury his tear-streaked face in Zolf’s chest as he guides Hamid towards the entrance.

_ “Sasha  _ has a cat,” Zolf corrects, moderately annoyed, as he finds a nearby bench and sits down beside Hamid.  _ “I’m  _ just the man waiting for it to find living quarters that aren’t my pillow.” 

Hamid wipes his eyes, gives a watery laugh. “He sleeps on your pillow?” he asks, and oh, gosh, he actually sounds like a person now. 

“And nowhere else,” Zolf confirms, folding his arms, and Hamid giggles, a little gulp of a thing that makes Zolf turn and glare; Hamid, in turn, giggles a bit more.  _ “What?”  _

“That’s really cute, Zolf,” Hamid says, sniffling, because something in the fluorescent lights must have made him forget how to filter his words. “You don’t have to sound so grumpy about it.” 

“Well, we’re not going to  _ keep  _ it,” Zolf huffs, and Hamid whines with discontent. “Wh— stop it, you sound like Sasha. It’s a stray. It’s a baby. It’s not something we have the time to take care of—”

“It’s a  _ stray kitten?”  _ says Hamid, and he might start crying again, but for other reasons. 

Zolf can barely force the corners of his mouth down. “Don’t look at me like that.” He runs a hand through his hair, stares out over the car park like he’s waiting for it to provide insight on life’s mysteries. “Besides,” he mutters, “I’m not even sure if we can afford the damn thing, so it’s all up in the air.”

Hamid doesn’t rest his head on Zolf’s shoulder and shut his eyes, even though he feels like he’s just run a marathon. Hamid doesn’t offer to cover all the expenses, either, no matter how much he wants to. Hamid just stays where he is, because he doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to go back to the place where Aziza is dead. He just wants to stay  _ here.  _

Instead of vocalising any of this, he says, “You named a kitten… Figgis?” 

Zolf snorts. “I thought it was funny.”

“How’d Sasha — it is Sasha, right? Your flatmate? — how’d she feel about that?” Hamid asks, and now that he’s properly regained all his senses, he can see the spokes of a ship’s wheel poking out of Zolf’s t-shirt collar, tattooed regally across his chest. 

“She couldn’t decide between ‘Eel,’ ‘Gravity Well,’ and ‘Shadow,’” Zolf replies. “I made the choice for her. Figgis seems to like the name, so. No harm done.” 

“Oh, of course,” Hamid says, somber as anything, and Zolf glances back at him to make sure he’s kidding. Next to the tattoo, Hamid sees as the fabric shifts, is a tight, puckered, painful looking scar. Zolf catches him peeking, and readjusts his jacket. It’s far too warm to be wearing the type of jacket Zolf has on. 

“Yeah,” Zolf says after a pause, and the moment’s broken. The place where they’re okay is gone. The world bleeds in much, much too quickly, and the bench is less of an oasis and more of a sticky gum disposal stamped by children’s ice cream fingers. Zolf clears his throat, says, “Listen, I’ve got to catch a bus—”

“I could drive you home,” Hamid blurts, because he’s coming through with the good decisions this afternoon. Zolf hesitates, and Hamid smiles like he means it, because he does. “Really. It’s no trouble.” 

“Sure,” says Zolf, looking at Hamid like he’s a bad decision Zolf can’t keep himself from making. “Thanks.” 

* * *

Hamid has a really nice car. What did Zolf expect? He’s saved from being uncomfortable when he sees how close Hamid has to pull the seat up in order to reach the gas pedal. “How tall are you?” Zolf can’t stop himself from asking, and he can’t stop himself from smiling a bit either.

The look Hamid gives him is — well, it’s supposed to be withering. Really it’s just a pout. Zolf laughs outright and Hamid can’t keep a straight face, muttering, “I’m five one.” 

“You’re  _ not,”  _ says Zolf, because that’s an inch off his height and he can spot a liar when he sees one. “You’re five foot, max.” 

Hamid makes a face. “Your life is in my hands,” he says as he pulls out of the car park and onto the main road. “Remember that.” 

Zolf ducks his head, leans forward to massage his knee where the skin meets metal. The prosthetic is helpful, sure, but it can be uncomfortable, and walking around all day hasn’t made things any easier. “Left here,” Zolf says and continues giving intermittent direction until Hamid’s car doesn’t belong in the neighbourhood. 

“This is me,” Zolf says eventually, breaking their conversation about food. Zolf has been telling Hamid of the first time Sasha brought home an eel quiche, and Hamid was quite enjoying it. 

“Oh,” Hamid says, and he’s feeling very small as Zolf reaches for the door and steadies himself with the handle on the way out. “Zolf, wait—”

Zolf does, his knuckles tightening on the door. “Yeah?” 

And Hamid’s tongue-tied again.  _ Thank you,  _ he wants to say, or, _ I’m sorry,  _ or,  _ I needed this,  _ or,  _ I liked spending time with you,  _ or,  _ we should do this again without me breaking down in a drug store.  _ None of those are viable options, exactly. “Do you want to carpool?” is what Hamid goes with. “To, um — to therapy, I mean? We could switch off weeks?” 

Zolf’s jaw tenses and Hamid hopes he hasn’t hit a nerve. Then Zolf sighs, says, “I can’t drive, so. No.” 

“Oh!” says Hamid, trying to remember the logical progression of a conversation. “Oh, um — do you want a ride, then?” 

Zolf shakes his head, and Hamid feels inexplicably disappointed. “Sasha’s got me,” he says, and turns towards the entrance of his building. “Thanks, though.” 

“Well,” says Hamid, and Zolf faces him yet again, “if there’s an emergency, you could always call…?” 

“I— don’t have your number,” Zolf points out, approaching the car again, like he’s offering. 

Hamid sticks his phone out the window, and Zolf pulls his out of his pocket. They swap numbers in silence. Is it awkward? Hamid hopes it’s not awkward. It’s a little bit awkward. Zolf steps back, smiles tightly. 

“Well,” he says finally, holding up the little black rectangle, “thanks, Hamid.” 

“Of course!” Hamid chirps, smiling like he means it, because he does. “If you ever need to find me, um…”

“I do know how phones work,” Zolf says with an amusement that makes Hamid blush. “I’m not  _ that  _ old.” 

“No!” Hamid cries, face completely red at this point, his hands working as he speaks. “No, not at all, I didn’t mean— that is, I was — I  _ knew  _ that you knew how phones work, I— oh.” Zolf is grinning. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” 

“Have a nice evening, Hamid,” Zolf says, sharing with him a private smile, and limps up the few steps to his building’s entrance. 

Hamid almost smashes his face against the wheel, remembers that he has a horn, and then carefully presses his cheek against the bit of the wheel  _ without  _ the horn. “ _ Nnnngh,”  _ he complains to the passenger seat, which doesn’t answer him. 

* * *

_ (He can’t drive,  _ Hamid muses to himself as he pulls away, navigating a few quick turns before finding the familiar road home.  _ I wonder if he’s gay.  _

He hits a pothole, reminds himself,  _ not everyone who can’t drive is gay, Hamid,  _ and stops before an intersection. 

_ Why do you care if he’s gay anyway?  _ he thinks, and merges lanes.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, as always, for reading! please fuel me with comments and kudos. :) if you'd like to chat about any and all things rusty quill, feel free to hit me up on tumblr @thoughtsbubble or on twitter @mostlyzoe.


End file.
